The dim, damp tunnel spat them out into the heart of the city square. The night air was thick with the hum of restless crowds, the streets alive with faces plastered in eerie smiles beneath shirts emblazoned with Praise The Conclave. It was a grotesque theater of blind devotion — but Mora's eyes were sharp, scanning every shadow, every movement.
"Put on your shirts and masks," she ordered sharply, pulling out a stash of Conclave-branded shirts and nose masks from her pack. Her voice was low but firm, every word heavy with urgency. "Blend in. Stay sharp."
Mora slipped the shirt over her head and tightened the mask around her face. Tyrone was already moving, his hands steady as he readied the tear gas canisters.
Without hesitation, Mora lobbed the first canister into the thick of the crowd. The hiss of gas filled the air instantly, burning eyes and tearing at lungs. The crowd erupted into chaos — screams and frantic shouts drowned in the coughing and panic.
Tyrone didn't waste a second. Peering through the gas and turmoil, he fired the second canister, amplifying the confusion. The swirl of smoke and chaos was a perfect cover.
"Move! Now!" Mora snapped, grabbing Galvanos close as they plunged forward, bodies pressing past frantic citizens scattering like startled animals.
The group surged toward the subway entrance, hearts pounding as they pushed through the mass of disoriented people.
Once inside, the stale air was thick with dust and decay. The fluorescent lights flickered overhead as they broke into a shuttered subway mall. The place was abandoned—an echo of better days.
They moved swiftly, looting every accessible shop, tearing through shelves, grabbing anything useful—food, supplies, anything to keep the fight alive. Mora's grip on Galvanos tightened with every step.
"We need more," Tyrone muttered, eyes scanning the darkness. "This isn't enough to last."
Several more stores met the same fate. Each one emptied, their loot piled high in battered backpacks, the urgency never letting up.
Mora's thoughts were a storm—fear, anger, determination all swirling as the city's shadows closed in around them. But for Galvanos, for their future, they had to keep moving—keep fighting.
Just as the last bag was stuffed, an urgent vibration buzzed through Mora's comm. Her eyes snapped to the screen—Police alerted. Coordinates locked.
"Shit. They've called it in," Mora hissed, eyes darting toward the flickering exit signs. "Move! Now!"
The group bolted from the subway mall, spilling into the labyrinth of underground tunnels. But the sirens were already howling, echoing off the cold concrete like a predator closing in.
They burst out into the open, weaving through crowded streets with breath ragged and muscles burning. Police cruisers roared behind them, lights flashing red and blue, a relentless wave of pursuit.
Up ahead loomed a cluster of old apartment flats—tall, narrow, with fire escapes and shadowed alleys. Mora led the charge, scaling a rusted ladder with a grace born of desperation.
The others followed, leaping from balcony to balcony, heartbeats pounding like war drums.
Behind them, officers scrambled, shouting orders, cutting off escape routes.
Through windows, across rooftops slick with rain, they darted like ghosts—slipping between buildings, ducking under scaffolding, using every ounce of agility and cunning to stay ahead.
The chase spilled into the thick woods at the city's edge, trees whipping past in a blur, roots threatening to trip them with every sprint.
But the police were relentless, their net tightening.
Suddenly, a scream split the night—a sharp cry of terror.
Mora glanced back, horror blooming in her chest.
One of the women, exhausted and cornered, was grabbed by two officers, her struggles silenced by the crushing grip of handcuffs.
"Keep moving!" Mora yelled, but the weight of loss settled like stone in her gut.
They vanished into the darkness, hunted and scattered—each step forward a gamble against capture.
The night held its breath, the hunt far from over.
Despite the sting of their loss, the group pressed on, their footsteps heavy as they retraced their path through the city's eerie glow. The streets were alive with the same unsettling spectacle — faces frozen in wide, unyielding smiles, eyes gleaming with hollow delight.
Mora's gaze hardened as she took in the surreal scene. People laughed and chattered, moving about as if nothing was wrong, as if the world hadn't just torn itself apart around them.
"This is the world now?" Tyrone's voice broke the silence, raw with disbelief. His eyes flicked to where the woman had been taken—now just an empty space swallowed by the dark.
"How could you leave her?" he spat, turning sharply. Without waiting for an answer, Tyrone broke away from the group, sprinting back toward the chaos from which they'd fled.
Mora didn't reach for him, didn't call out. She knew better than to try. Instead, she steeled herself and kept moving, leading the others toward the bunker—their fragile sanctuary in a fractured world.
As they moved deeper into the shadows of the streets, their breath visible in the cold night air, Mora's eyes caught something on the cracked pavement ahead.
A lifeless body lay sprawled face down — the homeless man they had spoken to days before. His clothes were tattered, his hands clenched into fists.
One of the group whispered with a shudder, "Isn't this the guy we spoke to… the one who told us about the chips?"
Mora covered her mouth, tears slipping down her cheeks in the pale streetlight, her body trembling with silent grief and rage.
But the horror was in the gruesome detail: his head was missing.
The brutal severing was clean, merciless — no trace of humanity left.
Mora's stomach churned, bile rising as the weight of the message hit her — this was a warning. A silent, savage reminder of what awaited those who defied the Conclave.
The city's hollow smiles seemed to mock them now, a suffocating mask over a world drowning in darkness.
They passed the body in grim silence, every step forward carrying the heavy cost of survival.